


I've Been Praying Hard

by clandestineClairvoyant



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, birb family, dragon!hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:32:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A non-cracky dragon!hawke au. It was more fun to write than I intended, and I got a bit carried away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I want a turn!”

 

“ _No_ Carver, it’s _my_ turn.”

 

“You’re both going to get a turn,” Garrett pants, rolling his eyes. “Just for the love of Maker, stop _screeching._ ” 

It’s mid-day, and he can already feel the sweat dripping underneath his rough linen shirt, down his front and slicking his waist around his trousers. His back is even hotter, the strap and buckle of his satchel jabbing firmly in between his shoulder blades and his squirmy, irritable little sister. Her arms have a chokehold on his neck, making the last quarter mile or so outside of town pretty unpleasant. Not that the little limpet would ever let up, when she insists shrilly Garrett is going to drop her every time he so much as shifts his grip. He could practically roll Carver down the hill and dump him in a lake, and his brother wouldn’t complain near as much as Bethy did. “Mother told me to take you to market, she didn’t say anything about bringing you _back_.” He threatens, as her heels dig into his sides _yet again._

Carver has a firm grasp on the edge of Garrett’s shirt, as he has since they’d set out that morning. His small pink face, somehow always sticky, flashes up at Garrett with a tiny gasp of alarm. Bethany scoffs and drums her heels against Garrett, every inch the petulant five year old. “No you won’t! And we’d find our way _back_.”

“Not if I spin you first.” He teases, and with a small burst of energy and older sibling maliciousness, spins around, sending Beth’s hair flying and Carver giggling, fist jammed up by his mouth as he backs away from their whirling limbs.

They almost fall down, but at least Beth has stopped complaining, and Carver seems pacified for the moment, patiently waiting for his turn to ride on Garrett’s back. He picks up a stick instead as Garrett continues trudging down the path, whacking at bushes and rocks along the trail, and ducking into the weeds to inspect sloughs of mud, or interesting frogs.

The sun is setting, and although his siblings are driving him blight-raving _bonkers_ , the beautiful glow of the dusty mountain road framed by the autumn trees puts Garrett in a good mood. It was rare he got to take the twins into town with him when he was running errands, and he enjoyed the time.

He’d take them more often, but his parents were always fretting about something or the other happening. Considering how often his mother reminded him of, how _big_ he was getting, and oh my _Garrett_ , outgrowing another pair of pants _already?_ , he thinks he’s about big enough to take his siblings for _walkies._

“Garrett stop!” Bethany squalls after the third surprise spin, laughing her little breathless giggles. “I’m gonna _barf._ ”

“Oh no, don’t do _that_ , then _Carver_ will barf-“

Carver cheerfully nodded, where he was trying to follow Garrett’s spinning,with his stick, probably intending to poke the nearest bit of Bethany he could. A common occurrence in the Hawke household.

“I _will_.” Bethany giggles, as Garrett finally slows to a stop, too dizzy to continue. (And kind of tired. Maker, they were getting _big_.) Bethany burrows her head in his shirt, and he laughs, hefting her up and catching Carvers offered hand in his spare one.

“Carver can have a turn when we reach the windmill- _No_ Bethany, he gets a turn too.”

Bethany sighs moodily, but just rests her head against his shoulders and kicks her feet. Must be getting tired. Carver is simply hanging off of Garrett’s hand like a Seheron monkey, his fingers in his mouth and hair dusty and tousled from their day on the road.

 

They live close to the village; maybe a half days leisurely walk, even when avoiding the encroaching line of trees that is the Kolcari wilds. Garrett had walked it with his mother since he was the twins age, and by himself as soon as he was old enough. Getting nails, candles, and bread and things. Most needs they were able to fill themselves, as isolated as they were from the rest of the village. The plot they had cleared in the woods had plenty in way of vegetables and herbs, and two goats and a cow was plenty for milk.

But their stove had broken in a summer storm two fortnights past, and they needed it fixed before autumn came in. The other night had been chill, although Garrett hardly noticed, deep a sleeper as he was. Even _with_ Carver’s icy feet tucked into his arm pit, and Bethany’s head jammed under his side.

But his mother’s face had been lined with worry over breakfast the next morning, and sure enough, his father sent Garrett into town with five silvers to get tin to fix it with.

(His father needed no blacksmith or forgetools; All he required was Garrett standing barefoot on the road with his hand shading his face, eyes on the road to town. The flickering glow of his father’s hands were outlined in hot glowing red behind the eaves of the cottage, even from the corner of Garrett’s view from the yard.)

 

The twins had carried on through the kitchen as he’d gotten ready to leave, and his frazzled mother appeared behind him in the small stone kitchen, hair coming out of it’s scarf and her face flushed. Bethany had screamed and thrown an egg at Carver, who dodged with surprising nimbleness for a child, and continued on into the yard with his twin in hot pursuit. Yolk dripped down the wall.

“Oh, _Maker_ take them with you Garrett, I need to do the linens and they are being a _nightmare._ ”

Carver shrieked in outrage from the yard as Bethany chased him with a handful of mud.

His father’s mouth twisted ruefully from where he was busy stoking the fire, and Garrett had simply sighed.

 

It surprisingly wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. Bethany had been delighted by everything, insisting Garrett lift her up so she could see over fences and into carts. Carver had been quiet and glued to Garrett’s side. He was a persistent pressure on his tunic, one that left most of Garrett’s wardrobe lopsided since Carver had gotten old enough to walk. 

There’d been some Templars out front of the chantry when they passed on the way to the general store to get some things for the woodshed. They were out of cheesecloth, as well as twine.

Garrett kept a casual eye on the Templars without being too obvious, and thankfully, Bethany and Carver weren’t old enough yet to have been scared into wariness, and were unconcerned with the danger.

Carver was driven to heights of rapture when one of the Templars bent down to talk to him; Garrett had been vibrating with tension, grinning weakly at the Templars fellow knight when he’d turned his helmet curiously to him. Nothing could be seen behind the visors besides the faint glimmer of what could be eyes, and the occasional echoing cough or breath. Bethany had tugged irritably at Garrett’s death-grip on her wrist, but he’d simply shook his head slightly at her until she relented.

His father still woke sweating at night sometimes, and he heard his mother comfort him when they thought he was sleeping. So Garrett was sure to be afraid, even if he was no mage, and as far as he knew, the twins weren’t either.

But the man had simply asked Garrett’s brother if he’d seen any _malificars_ , delighted Carver by letting his tiny sticky fingers brush the armor on his shoulder and arm, and told him to be good for his mother, before returning to talk to his comrade. Their heads bent low together, and Garrett felt the tension bleed from him, as if someone had cut it away with a knife.

Carver had stared shinily up at Garrett as he’d ushered his siblings away, tugging urgently on his hem.

It still startled him sometimes, how alike Carver and Bethany looked. His mother said they’d outgrow it eventually, being brother and sister. But at this age, with the only difference being a couple inches of hair, even Garrett was waylaid occasionally.

“ _Garrett_. Did you _see that?_ ” He asked, voice hushed in reverence. “I bet he was made of metal _all over_. Like a _statue_.”

“No he _wasn’t_.” Bethany insisted haughtily. Causing Carvers lip to tremble. “I saw he had a _moustache._ Statues don’t have moustaches- Well, made of metal they do. But that wasn’t what I saw.” She says firmly, already pulling her hair out of the tail Garrett had managed to get it into. He sighed wearily. 

Carver took this into careful consideration as Garrett managed to herd them to the general store, long enough for him to get what they needed. The tin was already digging into his back through the rucksack, and he was eager to get home and share the scare with the Templars with his father.

And so they found themselves out at sunset, four pigback rides later and empty of all the lunch Mother had packed.

 

Garrett shields his eyes against the last glare of the sun, making out the edge of the windmill over the next rise. Carver was taking his turn on Garrett’s back, while Bethany whacked at the bushes on the side of the path with the stick she’d managed to pry from Carver. Garrett was grateful, since he was sure Carver would have been whacking _him_ with it soon enough.

“I’m hungry.” Carver complains in his ear, hands yanking fitfully on Garrett’s scarf. “Are we almost home?”

“Soon. You know, if you’re not big enough to make the walk, maybe you shouldn’t be coming with me…” Garrett starts, smiling slightly.  
Carver gasps and snaps his mouth shut. Garrett enjoys the peace for the rest of the way up the hill.

For as long as it takes Bethany to spot something in the woods.

 

“ _Garrett._ ” Andraste's tits. He’s starting to hate the sound of his name. “What’s that?”

“What’s what Bethy.” He asks flatly, still focusing on the windmill in the distance, and judging how soon they were going to be home. It was already a gray twilight outside, and he hated to be out too late after dark. Especially with the little ones.

He had his knives under his shirt, and his father had taught him how to use them; But even Garrett knew there were worse things in the woods than robbers.

“That light over there.” She points, and Garrett looks in time to see the faint green light in between the trees, glimmering briefly through the branches, before it disappears.

He stops in the road, squinting.

Bethany walks a few more steps before noticing, and wanders back, lazily trailing her stick through the dirt while Garrett strains to see the light again.

Garrett feels damp fingers as Carver fiddles with his scarf, and he hefts him up further on his back with a grunt. He didn’t like anything unusual this close to home, and although he’s not quite an adult yet, a grown up sense of responsibility tells him that his parents are wary of strangeness near their house for a reason. He still remembers the headlong rush from Redcliffe, his mothers belly still swollen with pregnancy, and his face hot with tears as they left behind most of their things. His favorite toy, his friends. His dog.  
It’s probably simply veil flies. But....

 

“All right you two,” He sets Carver down on the ground and holds their eyes as he presses a finger to his lips. They’re both wide-eyed, and Garrett watches them grab for each others hands in the gray shade of the trees. Maker, these kids were like lodestones. ”Be quiet. I'm just going to see what's there, alright?”

 

They manage much better than Garrett expects, as he cautiously approaches where he thinks the light was. It’s much darker now, although the light is still weak enough for them to navigate through the trees with. Garrett’s still small enough to crouch behind the bushes, although he’s no longer able to fit in all of his old hidey holes around the farm, or in the cart.

But he’s always been a quiet stepper, and Carver and Bethany are small enough to barely be a whisper in the leaves, and they manage to get a look at the four people without getting noticed. An icy pit forms in his stomach at what he sees.

 

There’s two elf women on the ground, one of them unconscious, her white-gold hair plain silver in the dim light, and spread around her head like a shroud. Garrett could see a small black trickle from her hairline, and swelling on her face even from his distant view from the treeline. The usual twisted tangle of brush and saplings have been all but trampled flat by what looks like some sort of large struggle, splintered and oozing sap. One branch drips with water as ice melts silently off of it’s frozen wood, while another smolders from what he thinks might be a lightning strike.

The second elf woman was slightly larger, corded muscle on her bare arms. Probably from drawing the huge bow strapped to her back, which was trailing it’s broken strings behind it where she must have also been thrown. She was glaring fiercely at the two huge, armored shapes standing over them, her short black hair caught with leaves and her hands shaking around her chest, where she was clutching something. Her knuckles were raw and bleeding where Garrett can surmise the Templars- he can see the flaming swords on their chest, half obscured by their cloaks- tried to pry it out of her hands.

“C’mon now, we’ll just be taking you to the Circle. There’s nice beds, some other mages-“

“Get away from me _shemlen_.” Snarls the elf , casting her hand out in a short sharp arc, sparks flying.

The light briefly flashes the clearing, and Garrett blinks the spots from his eyes, astonished.

Now that he’s looking closer, he can see what looks like a foci set into the wood of the bow, near the top. It almost looks like amber, the wood gnarled and grown around it.

One of the Templars, in the blue cloak, swears shortly and makes a pushing motion with the hilt of his sword, shoulders hunching. The sparks die, and the woman flinches, a short grunt coming from her like he’d dealt her a blow.

“Enough of that knife-ear-“ He sounds annoyed, and tired, panting. “Don’t make it harder for yourself. We enjoy a pretty face around the tower, don’t we?”

The other Templar grins, helmet under his arm, and leers at the elf, whose eyes are wide and terrified in the dark.

Bethany’s hand is clenching on Garrett’s arm like a tiny vice, and Garrett puts a hand on either of the twins shoulders, drawing them back. His hearts hammering in his ribs, but he feels a heavy sensation in his chest, crawling up his throat. It’s something like panic, but not fear.

It’s the same feeling he had when he’d run to town to get a doctor for Father, who’d fallen through ice and hit his head. Mother had stayed with him to get him warm, rubbing Malcolm with blankets, Carver and Beth to either side of him, cuddled under the blankets with tearful faces.

Or the time when he was in town with Mother and she left him in the square while she shopped, to play with the other village children. But they’d found a dog, and when he realized they were going to hurt it, he’d stepped in. Fists clenched, all of seven years old, and he’d gotten a black eye and a scar on his nose for his trouble.

It’s the feeling he gets when his feelings are running away from him, and he knows he’s going to do something. Anything. As long as his limbs are moving, and he’s making something right.

Garrett crouches down while the sound of leaves rustling and the woman’s angry shouts cover the motion. His hands though, are perfectly still as he takes the twins hands in his and looks them in the eye.

“Go get Da, and tell him to meet down the road from the windmill. Twenty paces from the road. Past the old oak tree- Can you do that?”

Carver lets out on of his tiny, breathless hiccups. The ones he does when he wants to cry, but can’t quite work up the tears.

 

“Garrett, are they hurting them?” Bethany asks breathlessly, her eyes also shiny. But, in an inverse of what people generally think of twins, if one is crying chances are the other one is completely dry-eyed. It’s usually Bethany.

“No, I’m- I’m going to go talk to them.” He swallows thickly, and pushes them towards the road. “Hold each others hands- Don’t stop for _anybody_ \- Just run home fast as you can, get Da.”

Bethany’s already moving, dragging a now crying Carver behind her through the twilight. Garrett rubs his hands together anxiously, praying to the Maker he didn’t just make a horrible mistake. If they got lost… Or Andraste forbid, fell down a bloody hole-

He doesn’t want to consider it.

 

Garrett shoulders the thought away, and pulls out his daggers from the sheath under his shirt, sweaty finger fumbling with the catch he’s never had to use before, outside of his Da showing him how to use them.

They’re worn and thin, old blades with a thrice re-wrapped handle, so mismatched and sweat-stained they looked downright shabby. But years of use kept them an inch thinner than they had been when brand new, and sharp as a magisters tongue from religious sharpening.

 

There’s a creak of leather from behind Garrett, and the clashing grind of armor. Distinctive over the soft, whispering sounds of nature- Wind through the branches, cold off of the lake. The rustling of wind in the leaves, and the chirping of creatures and insects in the soft, warm summer underbrush. He slips his shoes off and tucks them under a bush.

Garrett steps out of his shoes, stashing them under a bush, and pulling his scarf up over his face, wishing bitterly he’d worn his dark blue one. Anything but this distinctive _red_.

But it serves the purpose of covering his face, and that’s all he’s concerned about right now. He carefully begins around the clearing, his toughened feet almost silent over the snapping twigs and rustling of dead leaves. Years of living in countryside and farms has made Garrett an excellent navigator of the woodland, slithering around the boughs and brambles that seem to have hindered the Templars by a large amount, if the leaves and twigs Garrett had seen caught on their armor were anything to go by.

 

“Fucking _hand it over_.” One of the Templars is swearing as Garrett comes back into view of the struggle, and the elf simply grits her teeth and hangs on to whatever she has gathered against her chest, her eyes shut.

The Templar hits her in the face again with his free hand, and the other one keeps a look out on the road, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t seem concerned by the show of brutality, and the anger and fear makes Garrett’s chest go cold.

 

His father was always explaining to him about Templars. He made sure his eldest knew the danger, the corruption that went on within the Templar ranks. That bad men sometimes joined powerful causes, all for the wrong reasons. One day he was going to sit Carver and Bethany down as well, but he knew Garrett had to be the responsible one. The older brother, the one that kept watch in town.

Which wasn’t to say _every_ Templar is bad, he’d explained to Garrett alone, later. After a glass or two of wine. 

“Then why are we to run from them?” Garrett frowned, staring into the fire as his father sat in his stool, knife flickering in the light as he tested it on the top of his staff. The twins were in bed, and his mother was outside in the woodpile, looking for an extra log.

“Because your father is an apostate, and that might make one of you children one as well.” He said with a soft smile, carefully slivering off a piece of wood from where he was setting runes in. They wrapped around the top, and when they were done, probably be covered with rags and leather. _What staff Ser?_ His Da would tell the suspicious merchant, _This is just a walking stick._ “I’d rather have your first reaction be to run, than stay and have a chat.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t run.” Garrett snorted, thinking of the distant figures he’d seen in town. They didn’t seem so scary. (Although, maybe in the dark, surrounded by walls, with nothing but their silhouettes in the door way and the light outlining nothing but the edge of their armor-)

“Even if they’re bigger than you?” His father had asked bemusedly, his eyes still firmly fixed on his working hands.

“Even if they’re bigger than me.” Garrett confirmed, attempting to look serious.

His father finished a line, and blew carefully on the wood, shavings and dust billowing to the floor.

He got up, and Garrett looked up just in time to see the flash of an expression on his face; something close to regret, or sadness.

“I’m telling you now as your father; You’re still a child, and you _run_ , you hear me?”

Garrett nodded wordlessly, suddenly struck by his father seriousness.

“You can butt heads with folk all you like when you’re a grown man, but Templars aren’t worth fighting.” He fingered his staff along the top, his mouth pulled down into a thoughtful frown. ”No man who thinks he’s doing the Maker’s work is worth fighting.”

 

He doesn’t think his father is going to be pleased when he finds Garrett’s disobeyed one of the few orders he’s ever given.

Garrett carefully rounds the clearing, his steps careful and quiet in the twilight gloom. 

Da was going to be furious when he got here.

 

The Templar had final managed to pry what looked like a necklace away from the woman, and stood up, kicking her back contemptuously. She let out a small groan of rage, getting to her knees. But even Garrett could see from here that her leg was a mess, an awkward angle ruining her kneeling silhouette. Her companion shifted restlessly among the dead leaves as the Templar walked back to his comrade, holding out the necklace for inspection. “Is this it Marco?”

The Templar took his eyes away from the road long enough to peer down, and Garrett kept the two of them in his view as he sped his steps, taking advantage of the moment of distraction to make his move. “I’m not sure- We’ll have to take them to the Knight Commander-“

 

Despite his barely contained rage at the sight of Templars, arms of the Maker, abusing two helpless elves, Garrett had no intention of fighting two full grown men. Although he was mad enough to take the hide off their arses, he knew he was only a village boy of fifteen. Still gangly and small, although years of working in the garden and farm chores had left him strong and tough, where other children in the city were simply quick, and desperate.

 

He knew however, that the only reason this elf woman hadn’t yet blown them all to kingdom come was a combination of the Templar’s magic snuffing influence as well as her prone companion. The way she hovered with her broken leg, lips drawn back in a helpless snarl told him that.

Garrett may be just a kid, but he could be a hell of a distraction.

The only give away that the Templars had was the speeding of his running feet; And even that was silent as leaves rustling in the breeze. Only one of them looked up in time to catch sight of Garrett coming full tilt at them, and in the moment Garrett could see his eyes widen in surprise.

 

Garrett enjoyed knife-work probably as much as his Da enjoyed puttering with his spells and potions. He shadow fought Templars and dragons and bandits at every opportunity, notching the fence post with his victories around their property for miles. Occasionally one of the men in town would find it in them, generally at the bottom of their cups, to teach him a trick or two, or help him with his footing. His Da taught him what he knew, but since he could light people on fire with his mind, it wasn’t very much.

For the first time, he felt how truly grateful he was for his limited skills as he bounced a foot off of one Templar’s greaves with a running start, the sharp metal digging into his foot as he got enough leverage to get high, slice through one strap on the armor, block the fist that came swinging down at him, and grab onto the amulet, letting all of his weight fall back and roll into the grass, the brief flurry of yelling and enraged swearing giving him speed he wouldn’t have before.

His arm throbbed where the gauntlet had struck him, but to his relief when he moved it, scuttling back on the leaves with his prize, it wasn’t broken.

“Bloody _hell_ -“

One of the Templars made a grab for him, but if there was one thing Garrett was, it was _fast._ His father said ever since he was little he was slicker than a greased mabari at bathtime- and twice as clever.

He dodged back, feet slipping slightly on the dew grass and landing him again on his arse in the dirt as the Templar made another swipe for him. To his disappointment the other Templar- Marv? Marco?- didn’t step too far from the elven women. He simply drew his sword and leveled it at the scuffle, seeming unsure of what to do with this interloper out of nowhere. But his head was turned towards Garrett and his pursuer, which was all he needed really.

“Who the bleeding hell are _you?_ ” Demanded the Templar, striding towards him. Too fast, and Garrett stumbled back, shoving the amulet in his belt as his feet slipped across the grass. Maker, why was this field so _wet?_ “You’re interfering with the work of the chantry you little stain; _hand that over_.”

 

Garrett succinctly puts two fingers up and blows a raspberry, before dodging the slash of sword the Templar aims at him, and turning tail to sprint into the trees.

 

There’s shouts behind him, and he looks back long enough to see _both_ Templars following him, feeling a smug smile under his handkerchief, and dodging through the woods to try and lose them.

If that elf had any sense of self-preservation, she’d throw a healing spell on her and her friend, and limp their way down the road to freedom. Garrett pushes some branches aside and goes sideways, parallel and backwards from where he figures the Templars are. She didn’t _look_ like an idiot, so Garrett figured that she’s probably half-way to Lothering by now.

 

It’s almost completely dark by now; The sun had been almost completely gone by the time him and the twins had reached this point in the road, and by now, in the shade of the trees, it’s _very_ dark. He’s grateful for the cover, since it’s much easier for a boy of fourteen to slip through bushes and brambles, than two Templars in full armor.

 

It’s only a handful of minutes he’s in the trees, ducking under bushes and at some points scrambling on his knees, with the sound of the Templars swearing and cursing their way through the underbrush behind him. He’s careful not to lose them, but also reluctant to let them get close enough to see him. But it feels like much longer than a few minutes; Long enough for the amulet in his belt to start to unnerve him.

 

Garrett pulls it out as he takes a brief break behind a knotted tree, the bark misshapen enough that he can wedge himself in with his narrow shoulders, and skinny limbs. He quiets his panting breaths as he listens to the Templars sweeping the forest, sounding like a whole herd of druffalo in the thicket of bushes. 

He carefully turns the bone-like talisman around in his hands, his brows furrowed as he feels the slight hum emanating from it. The same sort of hum his fathers staff got when he was casting. Or that Bethy got when she was throwing a tantrum, that made his mothers brow furrow with worry, and Garrett’s hair smolder slightly.

 

It almost seemed to vibrate, and Garrett felt his hand briefly tremble with it, like he’d sat on his arm and it had fallen asleep. Pins and needles prickling under his nails and wrists, up to his elbows. 

It was polished black, like fire-burned bone, with tiny, intricate runes written around it and tiny, glimmering loops of metal around the outer edges. The leather thong it dangled from was barely an after-thought, grimy and frayed from ages of use.

But the talisman itself was beautiful, almost chasind in appearance. Savage looking. Very unlike the dog-lord Ferelden imagery of flowers and horses; This was an instrument of the _wilds_ , and it made Garrett shiver uncertainly, his grip tightening ever so slightly around it.

His distraction is so complete with the talisman, it’s why he doesn’t think to realize that one Templar can make enough noise for two, if given enough enthusiasm and incentive.

“There you are you little bloody _thief._ ”

 

Garrett yelps and starts to struggle free of the tree as soon as the gauntleted fist closes around his shirt, but the Templar reels him in effortlessly, dangling him by the neck of his tunic like a puppy before he manages to get a grip on his struggling. He yanks at the hand holding him, but it’s like a vice.

“Get off me you son of a nug-lover-“ He manages, one of his knives fallen to the ground, and the other trying to scrape into the joint of the Templars armor. His teeth are bared, and his heart is beating jackrabbit fast.

“Shut it shite for brains.” The Templar shakes him hard enough to rattle his teeth, and the crashing in the bushes announces the arrival of the second Templar- No wonder his swearing and clanking through the woods had been enough or Garrett to think it was both of them. Damn- Templars could be sneakier than he thought.

The second one wrenches the knife from him, chain-mailed fingers closing right around the blade, and the other mailed hand prying his fingers off.

“Let _go_ you’re _hurting_ me!” Garrett insists, kicking out at the Templar who’s holding him by the scruff of his neck. Now that he’s looking closer, this Templar _does_ looks sleeker than his friend Marco, with less jutting, intimidating bits of metal. Two knives are on his belt, and he draws one, striking Garrett silent as he levels it in front of his nose.

“I’m going to do more than hurt you if you don’t fork over that amulet.” He threatens, and Garrett simply sneers at him, as the other Templar tosses Garrett’s knife carelessly behind him.

“Search ‘im Marco.”

“ _You_ search im. Little demon’s probably a magelet apostate- I’m gonna get my hands in his shirt and he’s going to burst out with tentacles.” Marco’s breastplate is half hanging off where Garrett’d cut the straps, ad he’s only now slightly regretting his reluctance to slice through flesh. Maker, if he’d just gotten a knife in the greaves covering his thigh, he’d have gotten away cleanly-

“Well shite for brains? You an _apostate?_ ” He shakes Garrett again, and his shirt collar cuts into his skin enough to make him gag, until the Templar gets a better hold, this time around his neck. “Interfering with the chantry’s good work like that, I wouldn’t be surprised-“

“You were hurting those women!” Garrett snarls, actually managing to land a kick that hurts, if the way the Templar grunts is any indication. “The chantry can shove their _good work_ up their-“

The backhand takes him by surprise, and Garrett lets out a small cry as the gauntlet opens his cheek.

 

At the same time the pain blooms across his face Garrett feels a pulse of warmth from the amulet, like he was just dipped into a hot bath, and an incredible pain in his bones that makes him scream. It starts on his hip where the amulet is tucked in his inner pocket, and spreads like flames across his skin.

 

And then there's a voice whispering in his head, all sibilant consonants.

_’Who’s this?’_ There's a pressure in his head, like someone filled it with water. He shuts his eyes, as if to keep the pain from leaking out over his face and out his nose, but it doesn’t ease. _‘A mage?’_

 

“What’s wrong with ‘im, I barely touched the brat-“

“Maker, you’re killing him-“

 

The voice whispering in his ear hums thoughtfully, and Garrett drops to the ground as the scared Templar lets him go. His skin is smoking faintly as he feels the _unbearable_ heat come leaking out, like someone lit a fire in his chest. He opens his mouth and tears his handkerchief away to retch, or cough, or _something_ , desperate to let loose this rattling roaring in his chest. It feels like he swallowed a forest fire, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is streams of smoke from between his teeth, and a pained groan.

 _’Destiny touches you doesn’t it?’_ The voice continues, and the water in his head becomes _boiling_ , his vision wavering from heat smoke and tears streaming down his face. _’You are not one to sit idle and let fate decide, are you? How **refreshing**.’_

 

“He’s performing magic, smite the little demon.” Insists the hunter-templar, shouldering his friend in the pauldron, and the other one seems uncertain in the set of his spine, his sword wavering.

 

_’You want to protect your family, boy?’_ Whispers the voice, and Garrett clenches his hands against the dirt, where they seems to be getting longer, sharper.  
It’s like the heat is turning him into taffy, and stretching everything out, turning his bones into rubber and his skin molten.

The Templar throws a silence at him, his gauntleted fist clenching against the air with a heat-wave like glimmer, and Garrett can feel it settle over him like a blanket of fuzzy hornets, buzzing and irritating.

 

_’I’ll help you protect your family, boy. An apostate father, your sister, your brother. They all need you don’t they?’_ Garrett stands up from the dirt, knees trembling and now sharpening hands clenches against his palms. Blood drips form where his fingers are digging into his own hand.  
Garrett roars angrily at the Templars, partly trying to release the pressure building inside of him, unbearable and still growing, his teeth lengthening in his gums. _’I’ll protect you, boy, and in time, you can return the favor.’_

 

Garrett spreads his wings, huge, creaking, bat-like things that sweep across the clearing from tree to tree.

 

He catches a glimpse of the Templars falling over themselves, a sword lying forgotten at his clawed feet, before everything goes black.

 

####

 

When he wakes, it’s to look up into the eyes of the silver haired elf.

They’re very blue, he notes. Dazedly, since he can’t seem to make his eyes move any where else. They’re fixed, beyond a slow blink that feels like he’s dragging dirt and glass across the surface of his eyeballs, dry and hot. Blue like some jewel you’d find on a ring. Or in a stained glass window.

The elf smiles, and it shows small pointy teeth at the front of her mouth, a delicate moue like a cat. They’re stained pink with blood, her lip trickling with it, and her eyes rosy and fresh around a recently healed face. Probably a broken skull, Garrett thinks distantly, over the noise of his agonized bones and head.

 _”Ma melava halani.”_ She says to him, warm breath gusting over his face with the smell of herbs, and blood and fear. Her voice is hoarse, probably from the bruises he can see on her throat, still shrinking from the healing efforts of her magic.

Her fingers are cool when she reaches down to cup his face, and he can see the gray night sky beyond her head, as well as the legs of her companion in the corner of his eye, where she’s standing vigil.

 

He doesn’t see the Templars, but he can smell something roasting.

 

He’s in so much pain he can’t think, burning with it. Tears wet his face, and the elf make a small sad noise, swiping at them with her thumbs. She brings her head to his, hair falling like a silver curtain interspersed with tangles and twigs to cover them. In the small shade of her body, he manages a small whimper through a throat that’s so dry and swollen he’s worried it’s bleeding. He can feel wet on his lips, but can’t tell what it is.

_“Ma serranas Telris’Avel._ ” Garrett can feel the prickling of magic in her hands beyond his pain, and groans lightly. It comes out a noiseless gasp. “Now, let me help _you._ ”

 

Her hands abruptly turn cold like ice, and he can hear the voice in his head that had been quiet since he woke _screaming_ , and he’s screaming as well, bucking under the weight of the elfs body and head thumping back against the dirt.

But she holds him fast, hands clenched on either side of his face-

 

And he sleeps again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't dead, I just work a lot and get stuck on writing. :')
> 
> Going to be reaching game canon soon! I'm just having fun writing birb fam.

#########

Garrett doesn’t figure out what’s been done to him until two months later.

 

His father finds him that night in the woods, Bethany and Carver trailing behind him like tiny tearstained puppies. His was face pale with fear as he caught sight of his eldest son lying amongst the carnage of the forest.

He never did find his knives- Garrett remembers waking long enough to murmur a query about them against his fathers chest as he carried him home. Like he hasn’t since he was little, and small enough to fall asleep at the fair, or in front of the fire. 

His robes had smelled of sweat, and fear, and elfroot.

Everything smelled like smoke.

But he got no reply besides a tightening of hands and a slight stumble in his father’s steps.

 

They left the Templars behind, cooked in their armor. The villagers said it was a dragon attack- Claw marks on the trees, and burnt forest? It didn't take a scholar to figure that out, never mind that dragons were so far and in between that most could go a lifetime without seeing them.

Nobody suspected magic. Just another fact of living in Thedas. Sometimes dragons come down from the sky and eat Templars. And sometimes the Hawke boy comes down with a sickness that keeps him bedridden for a few days.

Such a shame.

 

#####

 

Garrett can light fires now with his mouth, which he finds out the first time Carver throws a temper tantrum and hits him in the face with an elbow.

  It’s a month or two after, and Garrett feels fine. He feels healthy. He feels… Anxious.

Like there’s something under his skin sleeping, and it’s simply waiting for the right season to wake up.

 

Bethany’s just as determined to make noise as Carver is, early Feastday morning, hollering her fool head off while their mother tries to wrestle her hair into braids for Chantry service. Carver is just as reluctant to get washed up, after working all morning to get a fine layer of silt and mud caked up to his knees. And the icy rain barrel outside is not something to be braved lightly.

“ _Carver_ you have to get clean, the chantry sisters will think we never bathe you.” Garrett grunts in exasperation, trying to wrestle him out of his shirt so he can run a wet cloth over the bundle of fury that is his younger brother. His dark hair is stringed with mud, and his face is red with a young child’s anger. As well as possibly a small amount of asphyxiation, Garrett thinks guiltily, as he tries to get the shirt off, and partly gets it wrapped around Carver’s head.

_“Gerroff me!”_

“Maker damn it-“ He swears, trying to pin his brothers arms down long enough to get ahold of him around the middle. And possibly sit on him.

“Garrett Meredith Hawke!”

“Sorry mother.”

“Damn it!” Bethany yells, tugging fruitlessly on her one braid while Leandra works on the other. She has the smallest Hawke expertly caught in the v of her legs with a hairbrush in one hand, and the other caught up in her daughters laces to keep her from squirming away.

“Oh, see what you’ve done now?” She tsks, shooting Garrett a glare. He flushes slightly, but the moment only lasts as long as it takes for Carver to grab his shirt, jerk it back on in Garrett’s moment of distraction, and throw an elbow back to clock Garrett with surprising strength right in his mouth.

 

A few things happen at once;

 

His mouth feels hot with the burst of pain, as well as wet with the sudden blood pouring down his chin from where his teeth had cut his lip open. (Carver was a fast growing six year old- And was showing no signs of slowing down. Every day it got harder to wrestle him into shoes, or a bath, or into bed. Which was why his mother generally put _him_ on Carver duty.)

Then his mouth got hotter with something else, and his mother screamed in startled surprise as smoke and ash started flickering in Garrett’s mouth.

 

Carver managed to squirm away and across the kitchen, where he took sullen refuge under the kitchen table. Bethany took the opportunity as well to tear out the one braid she had, wrench herself out of her mothers grasp, and made an impressive slide for a little girl in skirts to join Carver under the rough-hewn oak table.

Garrett in his confusion reaches a hand up as if to catch the blood, thinking of the one ratty carpet they have and how the stains wouldn’t wash out if it dripped, and opens his mouth against a sudden cough.  
He ends up choking in surprise and alarm when a lick of flame came out instead, tickling his fingers light as a summer breeze, and singing his sleeve.

_’That’s…. My last good shirt.”_ He thinks distantly, and wonders what he’s going to wear to the Leandra-mandated chantry service _now._

 

His mother screams in surprise again, and in the ensuing chaos of Garrett knocking over a rack of herbs and lighting his sleeve on fire, his Father comes in from the garden- where he’d been collecting eggs and probably enjoying the quiet- with his staff blazing and a desperate pinch around his eyes.

Garret was old enough to know that his father was constantly expecting disaster-  
Him and mother had spent a large amount of time on the road with their gazes firmly fixed over their shoulders; A distant memory for Garrett, and something of nighttime stories for Bethany and Carver. His father was secretive about his magic, but always prepared for the worst. Always ready for the day he had to fight for his family, and his right to keep it.

But no one is as surprised as Malcom Hawke is when the ice that shoots out to coat Garrett’s sleeve and put out the flame comes not from Malcolm, but from Bethany; Who is half in and half out from under the kitchen table, hair a tangled mess, and Carver clinging like a limpet around her middle.

 

It’s the cold in his arm, almost blistering where it isn’t _wet_ , and the surprise of his little sister with frost coating her finger tips that causes Garrett to snap his sore mouth shut, and cuts the flames off before they can grow.

It hurts his chest, feeling like he took three deep breaths in and then never let them out, and makes him whimper slightly, his fathers stricken gaze going from Bethany, to Garrett, and then back.

“Leandra- Bethany.” He barks, going to his knees beside Garrett, careful fingers feeling along his jaw and mouth. Garrett catches sight of his mother gathering her skirts to stoop down and take a suddenly pliant Bethany into her arms, both twins lips quivering. But then Malcolm fills his vision, the smell of elfroot and mabari and wood polish filling his nose as he gently take Garrett’s face in his rough, sure hands.

He looks worried.

“Garrett- are you angry? What hurts?”

Garrett shakes his head soundlessly, scared to open his mouth, and his father gently puts pressure on his jaw to encourage him to open. He struggles briefly, and Da gives a small exasperated noise as Garrett tries to yank his head out of his grip. 

_“Open_ Garrett, I’m not going to be hurt.” He reassures him, using a gentle tone. One he recognizes from when he’s trying to calm the twins from a tantrum, or get Princess, their mabari, to do something particularly challenging.

Sure enough, Garrett can see the faint shimmer of what he knows is a magical barrier shimmering over his fathers hands and robes. It’s a relief when he finally opens up-

And he coughs a wet cough, causing a bit of molten _goo_ to slap wetly onto Malcolm’s chest.

“Shite.” Malcolm says in a flat tone, ignoring Leandra’s admonishing _”Malcolm,”_ as he swipes a hand through the goop curiously. The barrier holds, and he brings it up to investigate while Garrett pants in relief, the pressure in his chest and throat immeasurably better.

“What is it?” He asks weakly, and Malcolm simply shakes his head, cooling off the molten hot material with a wave of his hand, and setting it aside on the rush floor.

“I don’t know Garrett- Leandra, how’s Bethany?”

“Hysterical.” Leandra says wryly, bouncing the crying Bethany on one hip while she looks over Malcolm’s shoulder. Both twins are almost too big to be carried casually like that, but luckily Bethany has always been the most delicate of them. Carver clings to Leandra’s skirts and sure as bookends, if Bethany’s crying, his eyes are dry and wide as an owls. “What are the chances of two mages- And Garret at that!”

“Mm.” Malcolm reaches into Garrett’s mouth, and something feels strange about his teeth and tongue-

When Malcolm draws his hand back with a flinch, it’s bleeding.

 

Garret has fangs.

 

#####

 

Malcolm teaches all of them.

His mother minds the garden, and does the laundry, with all of them pitching in dutifully to take care of the goat, and milk the cow, and gather eggs. Malcolm fixes the house and gathers in the forest, occasionally hunting or heading into town to take on busy work. (He uses a bow and arrow, but sometimes Garrett can taste the ozone in the meat when he gathers that his father lost patience.)

They make their living off of the potions and poultices Malcolm makes from the elfroot that grows plentiful in the forest. Most people are too afraid of the Chasind or the Witches to venture into the woods this close to the Kolcari wilds. Malcolm has friends though- People in furs and bone who come to their door sometimes at night.

They drink and eat and laugh, speaking in some sort of wild tongue that Garrett doesn’t understand, listening from the pallet in the sleeping room where he’s snuggled up in between his siblings. Carver not so little anymore, now that he’s six and all head and elbows. Bethany is growing much more gracefully, and he knows the village women fawn over how _beautiful_ she’ll grow to be, and what a darling little girl she is.

 

Bethany learns about nightmares. About rage, and despair, and fear. At her tender school age she learns that she can want things but not covet them. That she can be mad, but not let her rage burn as it does in normal people. She sits at Malcolm’s knees and learns that she must keep her emotions in check. That she mustn’t give in to demons, to things that will tempt her, and speak to her in lies and whispers.

Every tantrum she throws from then on is met with stern lectures, and exercises. Books on her head, or ice she has to keep from melting on her tongue.

She picks flowers in the meadows and makes butter better than even their mother, and learns that if she sleeps too deep and doesn’t keep her wits about her, she could grow into a monster and kill her family as if she were dreaming.

 

Carver sits and watches, and Garrett notices for a while that he spends the most time away from Bethany that he’s ever seen since the two were born.

He doesn’t watch Bethany’s lessons.

He sulks in the woods, and doesn’t come back until supper, knees bruised and nose red. Leandra tuts and mops his face, her brow furrowed and eyes dark. She puts kisses in his hair, and he bats her off irritably, sitting down and pulling his chair in while Garrett and Bethany share rolling eyes across the table.

 

Finally Malcolm pulls his middle child aside some time later, the flowers still blooming heavy and fragrant in the garden, speaking in a low voice. He goes out to the woods after a brief time, Carver shifting nervously from foot to foot where he waits in the yard, Garrett and Bethany both watching curiously from their housework. Garrett was oiling some of the farm tools, sharpening and tightening and making note of where the leather needed to be replaced. Bethany was barely managing to continue her work grinding elfroot- She was too busy craning her neck to see what Malcolm was coming back with.

He comes back with a length of wood, probably specially grown with magic and roughly shaped like a sword. It’s about half as tall again as Carver, and when he picks it up, almost drops it.

 

He doesn’t put it down for a month.

 

Malcolm shows him some sword skills he learned from mercenaries, and when Carver soaks it up like a sponge, starts sending him to some of the veterans houses in Lothering. Most of them are old, and reluctant to take time from their long, and very well lubricated, tavern retirement to teach a rough looking peasant boy from up the road.

But Malcolm, in a fit of genius, sends the twins together. Carver scruffy and looking like he got dragged backwards through the barn, straw in his hair and patches on his knees, Bethany with flowers in her pockets and her hair tangled, smiling winningly at the old whiskered men who are already fairly deep in their cups-

They never stood a chance.

 

So Carver brings fresh bread to the men in the village, and butter, and in return he spends hours doing drills while retired Ser Karron watches. Lyrium addled and calling him Recruit when he forgets.

When he’s not getting his hair tousled by the sharp and pungent smelling former Templar, he’s getting hooted and hollered at by the Fereldan Army veterans of Lothering, who as a total have about five missing limbs between them and ten years service. If you aren’t counting the mercenary years. Most of them agree that Carver has some promise, and eventually hardly any incentive is needed at all to get them to train him in how to beat something to death with a stick.

When Karron gives Carver one of his old swords, chipped towards the base and cloudy with age, he comes home with his face twisted up in that expression Garrett recognizes from when he was little, and trying not to cry. Nose red, eyes squinched shut. Malcolm had grinned widely as he saw him coming up the path, sword bouncing on his back and scooped him up in one of those big bear hugs that Garrett jealously thought he was too big for anymore.

But there was also a pleased flush to Carver’s cheeks, especially when Bethany went on tip toe to kiss his nose, and rub some dirt in his hair.

 

Garrett tries not to think of any reason why his father would be so invested in his children being able to defend themselves. But he thinks about two Templars hitting that elven women, the sound of flesh being purpled under a heavy gauntlet, and thinks it’s not that unusual of a cause.

 

######

 

Garrett learns about himself at his Fathers knee as well.

He relays everything that happened in the forest detail by detail- From the two odd elven women, from the Templars, the shape of the amulet that they can no longer find. Even combing through the brush and trees and through the clearing doesn’t turn it up; Garrett on hands and knees with the occasional spasm of pain across his back or in his throat the first few weeks after Carver elbowed him, hand flipping through grass still blackened and charred. Malcolm with his staff glowing furtively at night, hoping to solve this particular puzzle before it can become a danger to the family.

When they exhaust the search Malcolm takes him out, far from the village where he’s taken Bethany not a week before. Garrett glances at the singed boulders and smashed trees a little anxiously, but his father doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to begin throwing lightning bolts.

He sits him down, and crosses his own creaky knees to join him, staff across his crossed legs.

 

It’s relaxing, being out where he can’t hurt anyone. In the days since he accidentally almost set his brother on fire, Garrett had been on edge, barely spending any time in the house and making a nuisance of himself out in the yard, trying to keep busy. Harassing the chickens, helping Carver with his sword work. Putting eggs in Bethany’s pockets without her noticing.

 

It’s like a weight is lifted off of his shoulders, the birds chirping in the branches and a rustle of wind stirring the long grass.

“Now. You say it hurts?” His father asks patiently, after they have a few moments of comfortable silence, broken by the occasional hitch in Garrett’s breath as he’s plagued by some uncomfortable twitch, or relatively painless rupturing in his insides.

“… Yes.”

“I want you to let go then.” He ignored Garrett’s protest, holding a hand up. It’s times like these that Garrett’s uncomfortably aware of his fathers circle upbringing, and how teacher-like he could be. It’s probably the only way he knows to be, the only adults he’d ever really interacted with as a child. “The only way we’re going to learn how you can control this is if we let it happen first. We’ll start there and work our way back. Garrett, you won’t hurt me.”

He blinks back uncertainly, before nodding.

Then, it’s not so much as he actively _tries_ to change, as he stops actively trying _not_ to.

It hurts, of course. Da had guessed it would, since he knew mages who learned to shape shift before and they all said the same thing. It took practice, and if you did it wrong than it could end disastrously. Just like any magic.

This time, it’s not as shocking, although his vision blurs like someone pressed his head in a vice and shook him around. The pain of his bones lengthening and his throat swelling hurts like nothing, and he groans lowly. The sound draws out and deepens to a reptilian hum, and he ignores the concerned sounds from his father to tip slowly forward onto the ground, teeth grit.

His gums slice, but he keeps his lips shut long enough for his mouth to fit all the teeth that have grown, and then opens it to pant out hot dry breath that sparks the dead leaves on the ground.

 

“That’s it Garrett, gently now. It’s like stretching a muscle- Keep going.” A hand touches his back, which is still too human. It’s making it painful to simply sit, shivering in pain and moaning lowly. His spine is the wrong shape. He shakes his head, but at Malcolm’s urging continues, concentrating on that hot feeling and letting his eyes close so he doesn’t have to see the forest around him distort as his eyes turn into that of a predator.

 

When he’s finally done he’s clawed up the ground all around like a tilled field. Upturned rocks and mangled tree roots stick out of the ground, releasing a dark loamy smell that almost overpowers the taste of blood and ash in his mouth.

 

“There we are. Look at you.” Garrett feels cool hands on his face, and rumbles slightly, opening his eyes, and looking at Malcolm’s solemn face. It’s an odd expression. One he remember seeing when he’d first given Garrett his blades. Like he was proud, but sad. The beard hides most of his mouth and Garrett focuses on his eyes, that are wide with wonder. “Beautiful.”

 

And he is, Bethany exclaims repeatedly when she sees it for the first time a month later, tagging along to one of the lessons so Malcolm can consolidate his time training his more dangerous children.

“You’re all _black._ You’re not an evil dragon are you? You look like that storybook we had with all the inky drawings. Remember, you did the voices? You know they turn into _darkspawn._ ” She adds darkly, and with a bloodthirsty look only children can really pull off that has Garrett throwing Malcolm a slightly desperate and alarmed look. “Can I watch you do fire? _Can_ you do fire? Oh, Garrett, _please_ please please-“

“Bethany, knock it off. It’s your brother. And he’s not going to turn into darkspawn. That was hundreds of years ago.” Malcolm keeps a hold of Bethany so she doesn’t throw herself onto Garrett’s broad dark back, delighted that she’s no longer too big for piggy back rides from her big brother. “Garrett, spread them out please.”

He does as he’s bid, and stretches his wings out across the clearing.

From what Malcolm has said and what he’s gathered observing himself he’s still small. _Juvenile,_ Malcolm says, and it caused the spines along Garrett’s neck and back to bristle up in indignation. Malcolm had simply chuckled and knelt down to inspect the claws on his feet, making sure to take stock with a scholars eye of every aspect of his sons new condition.

They’re softer around his neck, the scales, almost like feather quills although they’re bare like a reptiles. His hide is dark, almost black, but in the orange of sunset shine a rusty bloody color that’s properly intimidating he felt, for a dragon. None of that lavender or blue stuff he’d heard some veterans talk about in the tavern. His wings ripple with brighter bands of sheen that are almost metallic looking, and crimson when they’re clean and the light is right.

 

And eventually, when the light is best, he learns how to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ######
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter gave me so much trouble. Not to mention, I know next to nothing about Malcolm Hawke! Beyond the wiki. I was sorely tempted to do tiny!birb dad.
> 
> http://phemiec.tumblr.com/post/131806368085/wait-a-second-guys
> 
> But I resisted. Maybe some day.


End file.
